Years Behind
by domino.dice
Summary: Twisted every way, overwhelmed with the opposing strains of work and death and love and draining friendships, burnout is inevitable. Wilson finally gives way on a warm August Sabbath. Don't forget to R&R.
1. Forfeit

Yep, I'm a cheater. Little to no hard-core medical stuff in this story, just character exploration. In that scene in Babies & Bathwater when House goes to find Wilson because he didn't answer his pages- anyone who's seen it knows what scene I'm talking about- Wilson looked so sad. We almost never see him so distressed. That's how I decided he needed attention. This one's kind of the opposite of Bittersweet, with House watching and musing on Wilson, and Wilson being the one who's issues are being focused on. Also set after Honeymoon, and because this was written before the Acceptance airdate, I have free reign. 

Special thanks to Twill for help with a couple of excellent lines.

_The Mile's Edge_

(Forfeit)

Paperwork. The Bane of mankind, capital 'b' and all. Not doing it, however, would probably only yield more paperwork which would breed some other entirely new form of monotony that couldn't be escaped. Clinic duty, for example, came from one of the more irritatingly tedious cycles. Paperwork to get patients, in and out, paperwork as the precursor to dealing with a wide selection of morons, morons handing off more paperwork, and it often left House questioning. Which came first? The clinic or the paperwork?

It was beginning to get late, and House glanced out at the dying light before returning half his attention to the disorganized stack of folders to the side of his desk. The rest was concentrating on an episode of Passions which he'd been forced to actually record earlier in the day. The clinic, that was to say Cuddy, finally drove him to purchase a VCR so he could at last follow the storylines without waiting for re-runs, or making his own presumptions based on what happened during the episodes he managed to catch. He was always slightly disappointed when the actual events turned out to be different from what he expected. His guesses always seemed just a touch more interesting.

He found it easier to work during the later hours though, as though there was some kind of work energy that had to be shared around, and if there were fewer people actually working, it was more readily available for him to use for such mundane tasks. It was really the only way he managed to get such things finished. During the day, all the energy was taken up by the uptight, the anal, and the obsessive, so he couldn't do paperwork then, and was forced to occupy himself by other means. The rest of it though... the diagnoses, maneuvering through various problems, puzzles and difficulties that his job presented he could do any time. It took a different energy, and he was one of the only people in range who knew how to access it, how to actually use it.

So night was the only time he could wade his way through his paper sea, and why a Gameboy and a television set were job requirements.

Available work energy or not, there was only so much he could do. Besides, his recorded episode of Passions was over. He stretched, took up his cane and stood, flicking off the television before headed out into the hall.

Things were going to change though. Stacy... Stacy was a co-worker now. This could either make things incredibly difficult, or surprisingly easy. While it was far more likely to make things very much harder, and for obvious reasons, it still had a chance of making things simple. With her there in a business sense and nothing more, with her being quite obviously married, House may actually be able to justify to himself that she wasn't Stacy. So long as she kept up her half of the unspoken deal, he could convince himself that Stacy was still gone somewhere, and he still had no contact with her. She only needed to pretend he was a stranger too...

He hesitated, and tuned away from the elevators that went down to the parkade. The oncology department was, after all, in the opposite direction. Whenever his thoughts were caught on Stacy, he always inevitably ended up in Wilson's office, or with Wilson in his office, or each other's respective apartments. She was rarely the topic of conversation, which was good because sitting around thinking or talking about her was not House's idea of a good time. It usually led to tears, and Wilson used up all the Kleenex...

House smiled to himself at the image. In truth, Wilson had always been a source of stability, sensibility... His head was always about him, he rarely lost his temper, he could take a joke, and could make them just as well. Actually, House couldn't recall any specific time when Wilson had actually been more than irritated on that end of things, and he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his friend genuinely distressed. The man could take a lot of crap, which was a good thing for House, and he was secretly grateful for it. Several times he wondered if it was even possible to make it up to him, but only fleetingly because sap wasn't something House usually divulged in for any reason, so he just maintained his role of friend, and knew that should be enough.

_That's a little depressing. For both of you. You give him grief, he gives you everything else. Excellent trade off._

House brushed off the unrestrained thought and peered into Wilson's office, around the wall adorned with the oncologist's name in silver. The inner door was open, and he could see that only the desk lamp was on as Wilson worked through his own paperwork, head in hand, and with a significantly larger amount of discipline than House's own mindless autonomy.

Wilson looked up as House came through the door. It was difficult not to announce your presence if you came complete with a cane. His slice of reasonable brain reminded him with a pang that the last time he was in that office was when Wilson had been dropping his effects into cardboard boxes. Even then House asked for something of him. The note was brief, and he brushed it aside just as he did his other thought several moments before.

'Hey. What's up?'

House indicated his coat tucked over one arm with a shrug. 'I'm heading home and thought I'd stick my head in. Free at last, and flaunting it.'

Wilson looked back down at his work. 'So did you park on the track field, then?'

Busted. Or soon to be busted. Wilson's office wasn't exactly en route to the parkade, and House wasn't renowned for going out of his way. All things considered, Wilson could guess why he was there to see him, he wasn't as oblivious as many other people were.

'It was closer to the highway.' House inspected Wilson's paperwork. A case report on a girl in her late teens. Osteosarcoma. Judging by the numbers, she had a poor prognosis. House did not envy oncologists their job, cancer was incredibly morose. All doctors had to deal with death, but House's own specialties did less than some others. Nephrology was probably the worst of his specialties for death, but more often than not infectious diseases could be cured, and in diagnostics, he was under almost complete control regarding whether or not his patient would live or die, it depended on him.

On average, one in three people will die of cancer. For the people who win the ticket to oncology, maybe forty percent of them would spend the rest of their lives there, not like that tended to be long, though. Those that left would probably be back later, and become part of the next forty percent group. It was rough, and though House could understand that some would want to allegedly cure cancer, that just wasn't realistic. He knew Wilson's motives, or at least part of them. Wilson was the sort to want people to be as comfortable as possible. He excelled in his chosen field, possibly because he'd also make an exceptional psychiatrist. He understood people, their fears, wants, regrets... it was unfathomable to House.

That was just not the sort of thing House could deal with. He couldn't make it seem maybe not so bad. When the news needed to be given, it was blunt and objective. Wilson... he didn't sugar it up, he didn't try to convince his patients that it was a good thing. He told it like it was, but somehow did it so carefully and with such a vigilance, it was somehow natural. Imagine... natural telling a person they're going to die.

Earlier in their friendship was the first time House had seen him break such news to a patient. Before he met Wilson he made quite a point of avoiding the oncology department, almost religiously taking the long way around if he needed access to geriatrics, or the other areas near there. He almost chose to avoid Wilson once he discovered his specialty, but Wilson proved harder to disregard. House had been stunned with Wilson's deliverance, and was even more stunned to hear the patient's 'thank you'. House had tried it himself later, but it came across as insincere from him, and only upset the patient even more. He decided then that it must have been something to do with the patient, and not Wilson, and bet him ten dollars he couldn't do it again.

In total, over their eight years of friendship, House had lost close to eight hundred dollars on that bet.

'Say... how about some coffee?'

Wilson put down his pen and watched House with suspicion. 'Are you asking if I have any for you? I hadn't counted on you being here.' He set the file aside and spread another in front of him. 'It's weird for you to ask something so harmless. You're not just doing it to escape something? Are you dying?'

'And I only have time for one cup of coffee.'

'That's too bad. The biscotti's pretty good at the place down the street. But seriously. Coffee? No pretense, no running off and leaving me with the bill?'

'Running's a tricky thing.' House said with woe.

'Right...' Wilson still seemed suspicious of something, and looked at House as though sizing him up. After a moment he flicked his second folder closed and set it atop the first. House waited as he gathered some things and put on his coat. He looked tired...

Both were quiet as they headed off to the parkade. Something felt different about it, though. Silences between them rarely felt awkward, unless the reason for it was obvious. House glanced at Wilson. There was something he couldn't put his finger on.

'We're not taking your car,' House informed him in the elevator.

'And I don't get to drive yours, or open the glove compartment, tune the radio, fiddle with the heat controls, smudge up the body, or wave my limbs out the window when the car's in motion.'

'And you have to take your shoes off.'

'Right, I always forget that one.'

House nodded definitively, sliding into the driver's side of his gift Corvette upon arrival. House started the car, and they started their block-and-a-half journey to the cafe.

'So... coffee.' Wilson began, taking the other seat in the car, next to House. 'Standard invitations from you worry me.'

'And certain religious groups which shall remain nameless worry me, but I don't answer the door holding a lamb's head.'

'What I mean is there's some phsych book, and in direct reference to you it says somewhere "mention of this common, possibly well-disposed thing means this exploitable, evil thing, so run".'

'Well, keep in mind that I can sometimes be a kind, authentic person. So do not deny me or you shall face terrible wrath in the form of something which I have yet to think of but you can be sure will be full of wrath.'

Wilson smiled and shook his head, but turned his attention to the cafe as they pulled to a stop in front of it. He peered at the sign in the dark window. 'Looks like they're closed for renovations.' He said with a sigh.

'Bah. Such a minor thing wouldn't stop the likes of us. We have the power of taking our business elsewhere.'

'No... Greg,' Wilson said. House looked over at him. He looked all tired again, that wasn't right. 'We can just do coffee at my place. You just have to pick me up tomorrow, my car's still back at the parkade.'

'Deal.' House affirmed after a moment's pause. The rest of the trip was relatively quiet. It was too late for anyone but the later workers to be on the roads, and too early for many of the night-goers to be out and about yet. Wilson just leaned back, the evening air ruffling his hair and clothes giving him the classic wind-blown appearance. It was charming on him, especially the way his front fringe was all swept to the left, and the back stuck almost right out.

Pulling into Wilson's parking space at his nice apartment complex, he noted that somewhere along the way Wilson had rolled up his sleeves halfway, and loosened his tie. That usually didn't happen until he was actually inside, which usually meant trouble. House didn't comment on it in the parking lot, or the lobby, and refrained in the elevator. Wilson offered no idle conversation, nor explanation at all along the way. It wasn't until they were in the apartment proper, and Wilson had dropped his suitcase on the couch when it became quite clear what was going on.

The apartment was very tidy. This in and of itself wasn't unusual, Wilson liked to keep things immaculate. The apartment was tidy in the way a newly-built house felt tidy; in the sense that there was notably fewer effects about. The television- gone. A bookshelf in the corner- practically empty. The mantle was more spacious. The tasteful tiffany lamp that used to be in the dining room was also gone. The door and window- intact, in good order.

'Sorry, out of coffee here. Darjeeling alright?' House could hear Wilson shuffling around in the kitchen, and stepped in. Wilson looked at him. 'Well?'

'Did you plan on actually telling me anything, or were you relying entirely on my outstanding powers of observation?' House said, giving him The Look.

Wilson set down the box of tea, not turning to face House. He was still just slightly too long before taking a couple of mis-matched mugs from a cabinet and plugging in the kettle. His hands went to his hips with a slow sigh. 'It was to be expected. We all knew it wasn't the 'if' so much as the 'when'. I'm making you tea.'

House nodded slowly. Rationally, he knew should feel badly that he didn't do anything to console his friend. He was there because of his Stacy crisis, and hadn't thought of Wilson encountering something that would move House to start counting the issues with both hands. Julie's had been the shakiest of the three marriages. She'd been on the rebound, having divorced her first husband only a few weeks before dating Wilson who in turn had been divorced from his second wife for two years. He genuinely cared for her, but she seemed to be doing it more out of spite than anything else. Wilson was essentially arm candy. There was more to it than that, but she just didn't put the effort into the relationship that Wilson had. After six months he started to give up on the marathon, which was just another 1000-meter of running, with no prize.

And here was the finish line.

Dealing with other people's problems wasn't House's problem, but Wilson rarely needed any of the resources that their friendship provided, though House more than made up for that by taking liberally. These thoughts were just depressing. It didn't bother him like this before...

_James hardly seemed to actually need anything._

'Tea.' Wilson handed him the mug and moved on into the living room with one of his own. 'You know where the cream and sugar are.'

Deciding to pass up sugar for once, House settled on the couch beside Wilson.

'What, no snide remarks? Nothing like, "I've kept up correspondence with that masseuse you hired for me that one time"...? Nothing?'

'Nope.' House said simply, taking a sip of the strong tea.

'The suspense is killing me.' Wilson said flatly. 'What are you up to now?'

House shrugged. 'Friendship usually implies something mutual.'

Wilson choked into his mug, and took several moments to re-compose himself. 'Do my ears deceive me?'

House took another sip. 'You see, now this is why I can't be genuine. People just make fun of me.'

'You've never taken anything seriously in your entire life.'

'I have,' House said fairly plainly, giving Wilson an even look. There was a pause that stretched into a silence, Wilson being the one to ultimately look away and focus back on his tea.

'I just... don't quite know what I do wrong.' He said finally.

'You just don't know how to pick 'em.'

'I won't anymore, then. That's rather fair to the rest of New Jersey. My job's safe so long as no more millionaire tyrants come along. And so long as people keep dying, I'll be right there. And you... well. You're resentful, a pain to get along with, exploitative, but strangely the only person who's stuck around for any length of time. Keep it up.' He didn't yell, he wasn't spiteful or angry in his deliverance, he just stated it quietly, and took his coat to the door.

'This is your place, I'll leave.' House said, at something of a loss. This was absolutely an inappropriate time to make a stylish comment, and he felt vaguely ashamed that there wasn't anything else he could think of saying.

'Don't bother. There's some more tea in the cabinet.' With that, the door closed, resounding strangely in the half-empty apartment. House looked down at his tea for a long minute and finished it. Ultimately, what else could he do...?


	2. Bicycles and Blues

Bittersweet's on hiatus until I can find a new affliction. The premier stole it. Pheochromocytoma presents in a number of different ways... I feel dumb now because they did it differently, but I did it the way Saunders told me to. Ah, well. Must find something equally as tricky to diagnose and spell. Thanks again Twill for another most excellent line, you know which one. 

(Bicycles and Blues)

_All things considered, it was a good day. House had been behaved enough, or maybe not behaved enough but just good enough, to warrant heading the diagnostics department. Heck, the department had been practically nothing before his impeccable skills rocked the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital administrative board. He'd learned quickly how incredibly dull the clinic was, and thought that maybe he'd be cut some slack if he just cleared out the waiting room in under thirty minutes._

_But no, it just prompted his superiors to put him on clinic duty far more frequently. It wasn't until he declared the clinic a psychologically hazardous zone and refused to go that they realized that his particular talents could be used in other ways. The official move was about to begin, and his fresh, new department was about to open. He even got his pick of offices in the Lucas wing._

_Yes indeed, it was a good day. But it was five o'clock. The only thing the day had left to offer was home, a celebratory scotch, and television. He strolled merrily from the clinic, the nurse giving him a dirty look as he went. He was officially free, and there was nothing she could do about it, so he simply smiled at her and started down the stairs flaunting this fact. Waiting for the elevator simply wasn't as effective an exodus. It was fall, and the sun was starting to set sooner, but this little tidbit was of no interest to House at that moment as he hopped into his car. Up the ramp. Pay the guy. Fiddle with the sun visor..._

_The lower sun became an issue to him then, as it made it marginally trickier to spot traffic and so on. It was no problem, his rolling stop at the exit gave him enough time to see that there were no cars headed his way, and he started out into the street. The events that happened next didn't quite register until several seconds after the fact; just as he came into the street, so did another, less vehicular-shaped something and reflexively jumped on the break. There was a brief 'skree', and a faint thump, and his car jerked to an abrupt halt. House sat there blinking against the sun, stopped part-way into Morrison Drive. At first, he was consciously unaware of what occurred, but a tiny little voice in the back of his mind quickly informed him._

Greg,_ it disclosed. _You just ran over a doctor, Greg.

_In a flash, he recalled seeing the man crossing the street, and running him down just before stopping. He'd been going maybe eight miles an hour, and the other doctor had crashed against the hood before sliding off the side to the pavement. House practically leaped from his open window in his rush to get out of the car. The man he hit was still lying on the street by his car, having landed so that House couldn't see his face._

_'Ten thousand, and no harm done.' House said quickly as he stepped over him to get a front view and assess the extent of the victim's injuries. He saw that the man was still awake, if somewhat disoriented. It looked as though he'd landed mostly on his forearm, tearing his sleeve and resulting in some scrapes as well as his largest, cushiest muscle which, while probably bruised, was no big deal. He seemed otherwise alright, he was already sitting up._

_'What...?' He asked somewhat confused. No head wounds. Probably just as idiotic as everyone else working at the hospital._

_'Is that not enough? I'm not sure how high I can go, but I can check my budgets, cross-reference with my bank records... check over your financial need based on the length and extent of your medical care... we could make an evening of it.' House was plenty familiar with the standard settlements. Not only due to the fact that he dealt with some car accident patients who were suing their perpetrators, there had been a number of his patients who were less than satisfied with his bedside manner and felt that money was compensation enough._

_'Uh...' The other doctor looked up at him, stunned. House watched as the realization sounded slowly, almost so slowly that it caused House himself pain. Naturally, if you're in a car accident, the first instinct is to sue. He seemed fairly plain overall; short brown hair, brown eyes, but he could appreciate that the opposing gender might find him significantly more appealing. There were, however, two blatantly off-putting factors. His loud blue-and-green-checked tie, and of course the All-Purpose Pocket Protector which was a slightly different shade of white from the coat it was on. Even so this fellow seemed fairly young, and as such he should have been up-to-date with various lawsuit trends. Suing was cool, popular... House resisted the urge to scratch his irritated occipital lobe as he watched how achingly slowly this idea seemed to be sinking in._

_In actual fact, the other doctor, James Wilson, wasn't at all stupid, he just wasn't expecting to be hit with a car at that particular moment, and really couldn't focus on questions regarding finance._

_'Come on, come on! Someone might call the cops if they see this, and trust me, that's expensive territory.'_

_Wilson stood carefully, more because of the oddly crazed driver-turned-defendant than because of his actual injuries. His day was quite the opposite of House's; it was the first anniversary of Scott's disappearance, and the call from his weepy mother that morning wasn't an excellent way to start the day; in his office mail-box, his wife Emily had quite casually stashed the papers legally necessary for divorce. Her x's had already been signed, and she left him with instructions on a post-it note to sign them and send them off before Friday. What's more, he'd lost a patient just before the weekend, and though that was something he'd had to deal with before, it was just another thing that contributed to his mood._

_And to top it all off, deranged people were hitting him with reasonable amounts of steel._

_He understood well enough what was being proposed, it just seemed absurd. Usually the first concerns in a car accident were, 'are you alright?', 'somebody get some help', or some equivalent and not 'how's ten thousand for you?'. This guy seemed absolutely out to lunch._

_'I'm fine.' He said cautiously, in case this set off some random tangent that defied the laws of psychology._

_'What kind of fine?' House said, staring him down._

_'Not one that I'd pay a magistrate to outline.'_

_Alright, maybe this guy wasn't such an idiot. That was a pretty snappy comeback, but maybe he'd just gotten lucky, or he heard it somewhere before. 'That's crazy talk. Name your settlement.'_

_'Enough to pay for a restraining order.'_

_Twice lucky... Who was this guy, anyhow? House's gaze flicked momentarily to the ID pinned to the other doctor. Dr. James Wilson, M.D.._

_Oncology._

_'Right. Well, been nice chatting.' House got back in his car, and Wilson couldn't help but notice him fumble quickly with the keys in his hurry. 'We should maybe do it again some time. It's excellent when the people I run down don't want or need anything. What do you think, next week same bat time, same bat channel?' He waved and took off before Wilson could muster a reply._

_'Did that really happen?' He asked aloud to himself once House's car was out of sight. His scraped hand and back end still hurt, so it must have. He shook his head and continued to the bike rack across the street, trying to puzzle out who that person could have been. Someone on staff? A patient? Visitor? The latter was more likely. A patient may not have been so preoccupied with being sued, and a doctor would have helped him off the pavement at the very least._

_Wilson sighed as he freed his bicycle from its confines and mounted. Thoughts of the absurdity were already leaving his mind, and he recalled that weather reports kept mentioning the conditions turning. It was fall, and that might be the last day he could ride his bike that year. He may as well enjoy something._

oOo

House jerked awake, unaware that he'd even fallen asleep until he was fully aware of his surroundings again. Oh. Wilson's place. Right. He sat up properly and stretched It was a nice apartment. Quiet colours, reasonable décor...

The front door closed. That explained it; it was probably Wilson's return that woke him. House turned to look at him. He looked completely plastered, and in no good way, making House sincerely hope that he'd not used anything that had wheels. Even a car mechanic's trolley would have been dangerous to pedestrians and street rodents in his state.

Wilson didn't acknowledge him, making his way to his room with a slight stagger. Wilson's articulation always suffered the most though. It was definitely his most complicated conscious function and those often became most difficult when drunk. Wilson never had very good balance to begin with, so walking rarely became a problem. House himself tended to find it difficult to make connections in his mind, as well as talk and write at the same time.

House again refrained from saying anything as Wilson vanished into his bedroom without even taking off his shoes. House was amateur in these situations, and didn't feel like making things worse at this point in time.

_You're resentful, a pain to get along with, exploitative, but strangely the only person who's stuck around for any length of time. Keep it up._

That was a tricky statement to interpret. Assuming the last part wasn't sarcasm, it didn't really make much sense. Though House took advantage of Wilson as a friend, somewhere he always wondered why Wilson would want to put up with him. He said himself- House was acerbic, anti-social, and every other synonym. He wouldn't even want to be friends with himself. And yet... Wilson had been almost surprised at House's commitment to him, even as House was skeptical about Wilson's.

The statement implied that House was as much his only friend as he was House's. This was another thing that made very little sense. Wilson was the nice guy. Everyone was supposed to be friends with him. Granted, everyone did like him, but when was the last time he'd passed time with any of them? He'd taken Stacy for dinner on occasion, but they'd been friends before House started dating her. Even so, they weren't the closest of pals. Wilson had taken a nurse out to lunch once, but he claimed that was because she was having a hard time. In summary, he had few people he spoke to afterhours, and was ending his third marriage. What the hell kind of karma was that? A great, caring, giving person for some reason didn't get what was coming to him. He should have a wife, just one, first marriage and all, maybe some kids, and a whole posse of friends to go drinking with, maybe golfing, and everything else under the sun.

Maybe there was somehow more to it... After all, House didn't even know he had two brothers until recently, and they'd known each other for years. House had met his parents, and while that was a pleasant evening, it seemed somehow superficial. No one talked about anything but current events, and everyone was polite in a strange way, as though it had been the first time they'd ever met and it had nothing to do with House being there.

Maybe it did... maybe the only reason they all kept up the courtesy was because he'd been there. House couldn't recall Wilson ever having gone to dinner with his family since.

He stood and checked in on Wilson. Getting sick while lying on your back tended to lead to disastrous results. He was on his side on the bed though, back facing the door, still wearing his coat and shoes. This had the potential of getting completely out if hand. If Wilson went crazy, then House would have to go crazy as well, and drive everyone else crazy in turn. It would be a disaster to say the least.

House swung by the kitchen to get some more tea, more for the fact that it was better when his hands were occupied while his mind was. There was never anything good on television at four in the morning anyhow. It was a Friday night-slash-Saturday morning, and it didn't seem like a good idea to go home and leave Wilson with his misery for the weekend. This whole situation didn't quite sit with House. He'd always been uncomfortable in most social situations, and the only ones he really wanted to do anything about were when it involved Wilson, or those years ago when it was Stacy. For her it was usually House's doing when she was upset, and it would be Wilson who would talk to them separately so they could continue as though nothing at all had happened.

Everyone should want him as a friend, everyone female-inclined should want him as a husband, but here he was with only his job and one rotten friend.

He really wanted to know what Wilson got from all this. He really did.


	3. Sabbath

I crave new Vast songs… All I have are Visual Audio Sensory Theater and Music For People. I can't even download Turquoise and Crimson from the site, even if I pay. Le sigh. Jon Crosby is practically writing this story for me. Without Jon and Twill inspiration, this story would be dust in the wind. And Tori Amos. And Rob Thomas. Thank you all. This chapter took so long because I decided to write all the flashbacks that are at the beginning of each chapter. On the upside, that means that the other chapters will probably come out somewhat faster than they would have if I wrote everything in order as it will appear in the finished product. I'm writing everything in order chronologically as it stands. I don't know what difference that will make other than some release date things. /babble

(Sabbath)

_Oncologists. Masochists, the lot of them. They willingly went into what was probably the ugliest specialty. Not only do the patients have a habit of dying, before they do so there's a medley of other ailments plaguing them because of compromised immune systems, psychological issues, and hysterical family members. House couldn't imagine why anyone normal would even think about choosing such a specialty unless they liked pain in other people, liked feeling pain themselves, or somehow managed to delude themselves that they could change anything. True, medicine was getting better every day that passed, but the hopefuls who chose to take on cancer saw science evolving around them, but that didn't mean there was a magical serum, cancer wasn't any easier to control, nor would it be for some time to come. _

_The closest House had ever been to the Oncology Department was surgery, and fortunately that wasn't a place he needed to be for more than a few hours at a time. That entire area of the hospital had bad zen, it made his skin crawl. Actually _meeting_ an oncologist… he felt as though a black cat had walked across his path, even though he wasn't superstitious at all. It left him jaded. Maybe he'd overreacted in front of the guy, but he'd hit an oncologist with his car. There was no worse omen. If the guy didn't want to sue, then it meant his bad luck was going to catch up to him in some other way. It had been… _  
_  
…another stressful day… _

_…as Wilson sat in the lunchroom fiddling with his salad. It was the only thing he had bought, having not been in the mood for anything substantial, and even so he had hardly eaten any of it. Emily had come into his office asking only for the papers which, though she said didn't need to be signed until Friday, she wanted and expected in quick order. No doubt she already had a wedding date planned with whomever she had left him for, and he too would be waiting for the signed papers. To top it all off, some maniac had run him down with a car that day before and though he had no intention of suing, he had at least hoped for an apology. Lacking appetite he preferred to push it around his plate rather than worry anyone, for there were a number of nurses within sight who probably would have noticed him acting strangely. They seem to be keeping a close eye on him since he started working there which was more than a little unnerving, but it may have had something to do with the fact that he had been hired as the head of the Oncology department at such a young age. Wilson stood, unable to take the stares, and went to throw out the rest of his lunch, which was most of it. _

_He met resistance as he turned towards the trash, and ended up with the nearest table corner heaved into his stomach, and romaine lettuce in his hair as he was knocked aside by none other than his attempted murderer from the day before. _

_'Christ, don't tell me it's you again.' As Wilson turned to get a better look at this guy, he saw nothing new or different; he still had the same brown hobo coat over the same sky blue shirt. He saw no name tags or other forms of identification which was sometimes even required of visitors, and the guy obviously wasn't a patient. As Wilson attempted to recover scraps of dignity from where it fell shattered to the floor, the other man simply snorted and continued to a table. Wilson ignored several attempts from nurses to help him as he watched this guy sit with his tray of confections and assorted doughnuts, picking off romaine leaves and tossing them in the trash. He fought off his better instinct to pop the guy a good one. Just a combination of stress, no need to take it out on some person who now had a James Wilson shaped dent on his car to cherish forever. _

_Just stress, just stress, just stress. Fairly new job, brand new divorce, several new bruises, just stress. _

_He was glad that no one could see how much effort it took him to simply walk away without issue. That was something he was good at, understanding, tolerance… On the rooftop about fifteen minutes later, he dropped the picture of Emily he planned on keeping in his office off the alley side of the building, and it struck the pavement seven stories below. Though the crash was too distant to be truly satisfying, at least the glitter of broken glass gave him a moment of quiet joy.   
_  
oOo

Over the course of the morning, House heard Wilson's alarm go off a number of times, but always it was quickly silenced. After Wilson had come in the night before, House had not gone back to sleep, instead watching infomercials and Saturday morning cartoons. Bugs had come on just in time that morning, and had fortunately stopped House from calling in to buy a set of straightening irons that the host had done a most excellent job of convincing him he needed.

House was secure in the knowledge that he didn't need to go to work that day, but he knew that Wilson frequently went in on weekends, whether to make up clinic hours that he was allowed to neglect during the week, or to look in on some patient he was worried about. He certainly should have gotten up for that already, and it was unlike him to be late for work at all, no matter what the circumstances. House was quite certain that Wilson would abandon his car on the freeway in winter to walk just so he could get to work on time.

It was just about noon before House saw anything of Wilson, and even then it was his retreating back as he made his way to the washroom still dressed as he was the night before. House was about to make a comment about not needing to do laundry if he showered like that, but managed to stall himself long enough for Wilson to close the door between them, making the comment pointless. Even if he had said anything, it might not have made any difference, but House felt that poking fun at his friend was still inappropriate at that time. He had at least fifteen minutes' control of the television left, which gave him time to decide what channel to shock Wilson by watching. Something educational? What was the opposite of a soap opera, and cartoons at the same time?

He'd settled on a channel when Wilson emerged half an hour later, finally wearing fresh clothes, his hair still absurdly wet in House's opinion. He said nothing as he slumped into the seat beside House, and made no comment about the choice of programming. House was as likely to watch something like Die Hard as he was soaps anyhow.

'Just in time for the Doberman scene.'

'It's a Rottweiler.'

'Just in time for the dog scene,' House said without losing stride. The pair watched in silence before it felt just too awkward to House. Normally, he did everything in his power to avoid a situation like that but he refused to run away from this one. He couldn't remember Wilson being so dejected, and he was supposed to do something about it. 'So… not going to work today?'

'It's the Sabbath.' Wilson said with a dull tone.

'That never stopped you before. What's the repentance for working on the Sabbath? How about watching television?'

'You turned it on already.'

'Taking a shower? The alarm clock?'

'The shower isn't a muktzah, I didn't use a towel, the alarm clock is always on.'

'Tch. You're still inconsistent. I never break the laws of my religion.'

'What religion?'

'Exactly.'

'Haven't we had this conversation before?' Wilson turned to look at House almost accusingly, making eye contact for the first time since the day before.

House thought a moment. Had they? They held a discussion something like it ages ago when House had first discovered Wilson's Judaism, and that he was at work on a Saturday. 'What, you mean way back just after Cuddy became dean?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, we're due for conversations like these every eight years or so. Eight is the magic number.'

'That's three. Or maybe seven. Sometimes six. Never eight.'

'And which one are you shooting for?' There it was. He didn't really mean it in any malicious way, it merely slipped out in a bundle of what was House's nature.

Wilson immediately took it as a hit on his tendency to marry, which was how it was intended, but unfortunately Wilson wasn't in the mood to take it in stride. 'Drive me to work, House.'

'Yeah… sure.' Wilson fetched a tie and returned to stand at the door and performed a feat that House always looked forward to seeing; he watched his ambidextrous friend tie his tie, his shoes, and arrange his coat all at the same time. If ever there was a professional at getting dressed, it was Wilson. The choice of wardrobe the majority of the time… was another story. There was no doubt in House's mind though that Wilson could tie a sheepshank with his feet. While writing a different letter with each hand. Why he'd need to do that was not clear to House, but it was one of those things that one should be able to do just in case. He found it ironic how someone so expert at multitasking was so inept at balancing work and home life. House was thankful he was a large factor in the work spectrum, or else he'd probably divorce him too.

A mirror image of the evening before, they were silent as they went to House's car. House The worst part of it all was that watching cartoons all morning drilled a number of stupid songs in his head, the most prevalent being Duck Tails. A chorus of people singing 'A-woo-ooh' in his head wasn't going to help his prudence.

'Magic eight balls.' House said, in an attempt to clear his head with brilliant logic.

'What?' Was Wilson's reply, his voice indicating he'd already given up guessing what House was talking about.

'Eight's the magic number there.'

Wilson pushed the button to the ground floor idly. This wasn't working to loosen the tension; it might even have been making it worse. House swallowed his pride with difficulty. 'Sorry about that remark… er… earlier. It's…'

'It was funny.' Wilson said with a sigh. 'I took it too personally.' He muttered something then that was just barely intelligible. 'I shouldn't take anything you say personally.'

This was a standard thing that people understood when they interacted with House. They weren't really supposed to take his jives to heart. He had his fun with those that didn't know, patients for instance, and even those that did, engaging them in verbal sparring. Wilson needed to remind himself? It sounded almost like a mantra. Maybe it was just because he was in a dark hour that he needed to cite such a thing.

The elevator dinged, and Wilson was the first out. House trailed him out the door to his car, thinking about what he possibly could do to improve his friend's mood. It made him feel like crap to see Wilson in that state, especially knowing that probably no matter what he did to help, Wilson was probably on his own. He started the car.

'You can pick the station. Hey… we should totally take advantage of your special rules… hala…'

'Halakha.' Wilson looked at House, eyeing him with uncertainty. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know where this was going.

'Yeah. You know, harass the lunch lady, get her to make everything kosher, you and I could switch offices, but the balcony's too hazardous for that; we'd be moving boxes through the hall, but it won't be us because you're not supposed to carry anything and I'm taking a sympathy Sabbath. Man… that's an excellent way to get out of clinic duty.'

'You don't go to work on Saturday anyway. You'd have to make up a religion that has its Sabbath on a weekday, and that's…' Wilson trailed off with the look on House's face. It was one of enlightenment. Wilson knew that what he was about to say would be an 'ism' to rival all others.

'That's it… I'll make my own religion.'

'You'll have to figure out how to make it fly with Cuddy, though.'

'I always figured that that extra day in February during the leap year should be a vacation…. Frygya.'

'Frygya?'

'Frygya.' House confirmed.

'This obviously isn't the first time it's occurred to you to make your own religion. Was there a February twenty-ninth math exam you needed to get out of?'

'It worked, too. The guy was too scared of the consequences of religious ignorance. I don't think I was the only one in the class to take advantage of it, unless July eighteenth really has been Claumas all these years. The kid's name was Claudio. I think it was just his birthday.'

Wilson cracked a little smile, and House nodded internally to himself. Marital issues aside, Wilson must have had a killer headache. House was loath to do any such thing in any such state, so either he was absolutely outstanding at cheering people up, or Wilson was repressing again. Seeing as people who spent roughly five minutes and up with House were more predisposed to throwing things, the latter was likely the case.

Wilson chose some light music station House didn't know existed, and they continued in otherwise silence. House took his usual place beside Wilson's car which was still there, and powered off. House reached over and popped down the lock on Wilson's side and unbuckled his seatbelt with Wilson looking at him expectantly. 'Whatever you do today, make it quick. Only check on the patients of yours that are doing great, I'll cover the others.'

'By you, you mean Cameron, Chase or Foreman, right?'

'Sure do. I have someone else to look in on.' Wilson nodded and exited the vehicle, hopping over the door with the conclusion of House's little speech. Judging by the lack of reaction, House was subtle enough that Wilson didn't realize it was him that House was there to look in on.

oOo

A little **A/N** for Holbytan on muktzah- you're right about the towel. I edited it out, he can air-dry. Wilson doesn't break the rules, he just bends 'em- he and I both figure that if the alarm clock's already plugged in and on, hitting the snooze button won't hurt… (biting fingernails) And House was the one doing the driving… Wilson doesn't need to open the door to get in that car too, so it's a bonus. The towel and the spelling for the word 'prevalent' are my bad, though. Everything should be fixed now. Isn't Shabbat fun?


End file.
